Damian frowned at your stance. It was... off. Everything about your form was so off. If he could hide his disappointment, he would, but it was shocking just how much you needed to rework now.

Of course, he'd been forced to train you. Dick offered, you denied. Jason didn't want to, Tim was on a mission, and all other members of the team had some excuse up their sleeve.

Damian knew you'd definitely lost your touch during the time you were sidelined — almost being crushed to death could do that to you — hell, you did flatline and got resuscitated. Recovering was not fun.

But frankly, he still found it absolutely appalling how fucking wrong your stance was.

He sighed, surveying you all over again and mentally noting the things that you needed to improve, which was virtually everything. "I'm... I won't say it," he sighed, coming up behind you to fix your stance.

He lightly nudged your feet farther apart, allowing a wider stance, grabbed your wrists and brought your arms up to cover your face, turned your torso by means of your shoulders, and a host of other, mostly miniscule adjustments — he was nit-picking, one-hundred percent. You just glared at him. Dickhead.

He stepped back, giving a nod of satisfaction to his efforts before frowning again.

"You're reverting," Damian pointed out, watching as you unconsciously shifted around while hitting the dojo bag, trying to return to the earlier, more comfortable position. Your shuffling did nothing to restore the damage — the perfect bearing you'd been in was already ruined. Shit.

"Whatever," he exhaled softly. "Just... be more aware of yourself. You're being sloppy."

He repositioned you again, drilling the position of each limb into your head. "Your arms need to stay up. Your fists should be at least at nose-level, not below your neck," he reminded you firmly, standing in front of you, your wrists in his grasp, while hoping muscle memory would kick in at some point and the effects of your bedrest would magically disappear.

"Again," he urged.